


The Artist

by beanarie



Series: The Artist [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Deaf Character, Deaf Neal, Disability, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26517637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanarie/pseuds/beanarie
Summary: Peter gets a bit biting sometimes about how Neal never answers his phone and instantly pivots to texts. "Texts are more straightforward and time efficient," Neal says, presenting the picture of innocence.
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Series: The Artist [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933711
Comments: 12
Kudos: 175





	The Artist

**Author's Note:**

> "You can keep as quiet as you like, but one of these days somebody is going to find you."  
> Haruki Murakami
> 
> Disclaimer: I'm hearing, and I apologize for any inaccuracies.

Working with Neal Caffrey in a professional setting on a daily basis quickly allows Peter, and sometimes the other agents, to collect knowledge, little tidbits, trivia, and idiosyncrasies about him they couldn't have gotten from research, interrogations, or interviewing witnesses. 

Jones and Cruz joke good-naturedly about Caffrey's predilection for mirrors, the flat one the size of a playing card he always seems to have in his hand, the curved ones surreptitiously shoved in corners of the apartment in June's mansion. He's more paranoid than his conspiracy enthusiast friend. He's vainer than any high school sophomore on Facebook. Steadfast in his refusal to rise to their bait, Neal just rolls his eyes or ignores them completely. 

Peter gets a bit biting sometimes about how Neal never answers his phone and instantly pivots to texts. "Texts are more straightforward and time efficient," Neal says, presenting the picture of innocence. If Peter were a quasi-reformed thief/conman, he would do everything possible to minimize the risk of the FBI hearing something incriminating in the background. 

When Neal is ill or has been burning the candle at both ends for too long, he gets strangely jumpy and snaps at people who try to start a conversation with him. Half the time he feels bad as soon as he opens his mouth, and later makes it up to the person in a way that would be anonymous if the elaborate nature didn't point right to him. The other half of the time, he pretends nothing happened.

While he maintains a charming--sometimes cheeky, depending on the person--baseline with everyone at the bureau, he's quietly but manifestly opposed to group gatherings, often begging off when something involves hanging out with more than two or three people. On a possibly related note, there are specific agents he seems to refuse to acknowledge when they're all in the conference room. Wary of his underlings trying to bully the criminal or haze the new guy, Peter keeps an eye on Neal's interactions with them, but outside the conference room he shows no sign of tension with them and zero reason for concern.

Neal also sucks at following orders. This isn't a revelation. It's just fucking annoying.

"Am I being ignored?" Peter asks incredulously, staring at his mic. "Do you not hear me telling him to wrap this up and come back in?"

On the other side of the van, Jones nods. "I hear you," he says in an attempt to be validating.

"I said it four times."

Jones shrugs. "Maybe there's something wrong with the equipment."

"Caffrey," Peter growls. "Neal, goddammit." He takes out his phone and punches out a text. _Abort. Now._

After a couple of heartbeats, they hear Neal make his apologies and excuse himself. Peter begins the process of unclenching. 

When he gets to the van, he's predictably unruffled. "Problem?" he asks as Peter's blood pressure rises.

Peter squints through two fingers. "You were half an inch from getting made. Cruz just called. She found out you were in lock-up at the same time as the suspect's son. He could've walked in at any time, or she could've recognized you from visiting days." 

"Oh." Neal doesn't try to say that's ludicrous because of course no one would remember him from a fleeting glimpse or two. There's no point in pretending he has a face that people tend to forget. "Who's the son?"

Peter throws out a hand to cut off Jones as he tries to answer. "Doesn't matter. You can find out later. Right now I'd like to know why it took five solid minutes and an engraved invitation to get you back here. Why didn't you leave when I told you to?"

"Well-"

"Did you steal something in there? Look me in the eye."

Neal makes a face, but looks up. "Peter, I did not steal anything in that building, from those people, or at all today."

"You're not working some kind of side hustle?" 

"No, and you should never use that term again."

"He's not using it wrong," Jones points out.

"I know. He just looked a little too thrilled about the word choice just now and I don't want him to bust it out every single time he thinks I'm up to something for the next three years and nine months. This needs to be nipped in the bud."

Peter makes a show of checking Neal's pockets. "You have to admit, you are a firm proponent of the side hustle."

Neal groans, as Peter grins. "Now it's three years, eight months, three weeks, six days, twenty-three hours, fifty-nine minutes..."

The penny takes a full season and part of another to drop.

They're in Peter's den. There's no music playing, no TV, no one else breathing in the room let alone talking. Neal isn't doing anything that would require the hyperfocus he employs when painting or reviewing a case file. He's sitting on the couch, bent forward to enthusiastically ruffle Satchmo's ears. And he hasn't reacted to a single word Peter has said in over a full minute.

Everything clicks into place, like he just found the key for a locked door he's been standing in front of for years. A door he never even realized was there. Peter feels pretty dense. 

He waits, sipping his beer, for Neal's attention to wander back over to him because now he knows there's no point in trying to talk if his head is turned. It doesn't take long. Neal must have an internal clock reminding him when to make eye contact so he doesn't miss too much of a conversation. It's seemingly a little on the fritz on lazy Sunday afternoons, or maybe only in this house, or, most likely, only when the two of them are alone together in this house. Peter wonders if anyone has ever seen Neal Caffrey genuinely relaxed before. He almost feels bad about ruining it.

"How did it happen?" Peter asks, tilting his head.

Neal gives a start, looking away quickly, then turning back to him. He laughs a little, biting his bottom lip. "I assume you wouldn't believe me if I said it was when that airplane exploded."

"No." Peter smiles slightly. Neal's good--one might say incredible. But he's not quite good enough to adjust to a brand new disability without anyone noticing a single thing. Also the mirrors he uses to catch people coming up behind him or get an idea of what they're saying, the tangential way he responds when he's on a wire because he's been guessing what the other person is saying, freezing out anyone who isn't in his field of vision, those all started long before the explosion. 

"I was fifteen," Neal says, then his willingness to speak abruptly falls off a cliff, making it clear that's all he has for Peter. The longer the silence stretches on, the stormier those blue eyes grow. As though sensing the change in his friend's mood, Satchmo uses his damp nose to nudge the vintage designer fabric covering Neal's leg and doesn't stop until rewarded with some nervous pats.

Neal doesn't know where they stand. Changes will have to be made, accommodations put in place. For a second Peter imagines what Neal could contribute if he wasn't constantly stitching together holes in conversations using guesswork and context, if he could tell directly what was going on when they listened to audio recordings and didn't have to glean the gist of it from their reactions, and if they had a reliable way to send him communications in the field. Peter cannot keep this to himself. But Neal must know that Peter will not hesitate to barricade them both at the nearest ACLU office if anyone so much as thinks about sending him back to prison for being deaf.

"It must be exhausting to fake it at this level all the time," Peter says instead.

Somehow Neal seems to comprehend all of it anyway. He gives Peter a smile, a tired, real one, not a sparkling, bullshit one. "Well, if you're offering to reduce my sentence for undue hardship, I'm not about to argue."


End file.
